Red World
by Feralious
Summary: "And I find it kind of funny, I find it kind of sad. The dreams in which I'm dying are the best I've ever had." - Lately his dreams had been shifting, the faces no longer taunted him. No, they seemed to encourage him, to edge him on.


**It's been a while since I wrote anything for this fandom and the only reason I finished this is because I have a deadline for the Mentalist Big Bang (which ends in about 15 minutes where I live). So here ya go, just good old Jane angst. I had to work a bit to make it fit in the time frame because I tend to avoid AU's, but I think it just might. **

**This fic was inspired by Mad World by Gary Jules (hence the title). Or more particularly the line I incorporated in this fic. Thoughts on reading this are much appreciated!  
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><p><em>"And I find it kind of funny, I find it kind of sad. The dreams in which I'm dying are the best I've ever had."<em>

The few times he actually managed to get some sleep, his dreams were haunted by blood red smiley faces. He would sit on the ground, feeling his hands soaked in blood, the face on the wall multiplying and blurring until it was all he could see. Closing his eyes wouldn't help, it would smile at him, laugh at him. He could feel his head spinning, like the entire world around him was falling down and sucking him into its vortex. And just when he thought he'd lost hope forever he would wake up, covered in sweat, wondering when and how he ever drifted off to sleep.

Yet lately his dreams had been shifting, the faces no longer taunted him. No, they seemed to encourage him, to edge him on. And while he still remembered their horrifying meaning all too clearly, it strangely felt as though they were actually showing him the right course of action.

He would look at the gun in his hand that had once before served to kill his nemesis. It hadn't been difficult to retrieve it from the evidence storage room, the receptionist there wasn't exactly the brightest light. But when he held it, looked at it, he would feel strangely excited. Tonight it would end a life, make an end to his suffering. And he would close his eyes, seeing the image of his wife and child. A smile formed on his face as he moved the gun towards his head, hand steady and calm. The cold steel now rested on his temple. He knew the next shot would end it all. He'd put the bullet in the chamber himself. One single bullet. He wouldn't need any more. He could almost feel them reaching out to him.

And then he would pull the trigger.

He'd wake up, feeling trapped in the tight sheets. He'd blink, his eyes adjusting to the darkness. He'd distinguish the spare familiar objects in his room, his fluttering heart crashing down. He was alive, and he would be for many more years to come. A long, long torturing time that he was definitely not looking forward to. If it were up to him he would've joined them years ago. But he couldn't, not with his friends depending on him. He couldn't cause them the same grief the death of his family had caused him. They didn't deserve it. He had to stay strong, for their sake. Though recently he longed for those times where he wouldn't be able to sleep, because now his dreams were riddled with futures of what could be. No matter how disturbing he knew it was, he couldn't help but feel happy at feeling the cold, familiar steel pressed against his head.

He untangled himself from the sheets and sat there for a moment, still trying to overcome the emotions clashing in his body. The happy, hopeful feelings were quickly subjugated to the sad, depressing ones that overwhelmed him. An all too familiar experience.

When the worst had passed and he was once again absorbed by every negative emotion one could think of he leant to the side, reaching under his mattress. His hands immediately took hold of the heavy object and he pulled it out. Almost fascinated he stared at the firearm, which seemed to be glowing in the faint, cold light that seeped in through the curtains. What he wouldn't do to be freed from the strangling ties of friendship... But it was too late, he was trapped and even he couldn't find a way out. So instead he was left to dream of his freedom, where he could rejoice with the ones that he loved most of all. Had he been the old Patrick Jane, he wouldn't have cared that much about what his friends thought. He'd have gone and done what he wanted. But the last time he'd given in to his own impulses, it had led to this. His wife had told him to be careful, told him that Red John probably wouldn't like being mocked. The last thing he'd told her before he went out was "Don't worry love, it'll be alright. It's not like he can do anything about it. I'll see you tonight, don't wait up for me okay? I love you." And with that he'd left.

Without so much as thinking about it his fingers found the safety and turned it off, then proceeded to pull the slide to the rear of the gun, causing a bullet to fall out. He picked it up and held it between his right thumb and index finger. In the scarce light coming in from outside he stared at it. How was it possible that such a small object could elicit death, cause someone else's future to be a shambles? He knew the saying 'Guns don't kill people, people kill people' but he didn't agree with it. People didn't plant the bullet in your head that killed you. So much lethal potential in that cold little round that he rolled between his fingers. Never judge a book by its cover. He'd learned that the hard way.

He removed the empty magazine and held it in his left palm, pressing down the bullet on top of the insert and sliding it in. He paused in his movements as he focused on it, to make sure it was really there. Subsequently he picked up the gun and slid the magazine back in until it clicked. Then he withdrew the slide again and heard that satisfying click of the round being placed into the chamber.

All of his movements had been so fluid, so easy, that one could only wonder if he really didn't like guns. But he didn't, he truly didn't. Though sometimes they served their purpose. They were quick and painless if used right, a very merciful way to die. Which is why he never planned to use it when he killed Red John. But when he went to the mall that day, he had no choice but to bring it with him. He couldn't take his time with him in a place full of people, so he'd have to settle for something less if it ever came down to it. If he did show up. And to his own surprise he had.

He'd thought something was off, but as he talked to him his belief started to grow. And when he'd said those words about his wife and daughter, he'd been convinced. Or maybe he just wanted to believe that he was standing in front of the man responsible, because it would mean that he could finally execute his revenge. But no matter if the pain at hearing those words caused him to pull the trigger or if they had made his last doubts dissolve, in the end it meant that he shot and killed him.

He'd shot thrice. One shot to kill, one shot to be sure he was dead and a final shot to display his unbounded hatred.

He'd thought that all he'd wanted was to kill Red John, but killing the man claiming to be his arch nemesis hadn't brought him any relief. If anything, he'd started to doubt his revenge. He'd killed him, but it didn't make him feel any better. And now he was without a purpose. Life after killing Red John wasn't any better than spending it chasing after him.

He was tired, so damn tired. And he knew it had nothing to do with yet another restless night. He'd known all along that it was possible that getting revenge wouldn't be as sweet as Tommy'd told him. Not that he had any doubts whether or not Red John deserved to die, he sure as hell did. But after years of searching for vengeance the reasons for wanting him dead all seemed to blur together now. There was justice, of course. An eye for an eye. Red John murdered his family, he'd murder him. It was only fair. Then there were the amends he was trying to make for his family. Even if he didn't believe in any sort of afterlife, for some reason he felt like he couldn't disappoint them. He was doing it for them and no one, no one could tell him that it wasn't what they would've wanted for him. To hell with everyone who told him that his wife and daughter would want for him to go on. They had no right to speak for his family.

Not like he did. He was the one that got them killed. But he knew his wife, he knew his beautiful Angela. She would want him to be happy, want him to live his life to the fullest. He was still alive, so he should make it count. He should live for all three of them. But he couldn't, and even if he could, he wouldn't. He'd always thought Angela was too good for him, that she deserved someone who cared as much about her as she did about him. No, that wasn't right. He cared about her, a lot. But Angela cared about _everyone_. There was no limit to her capacity of love. She always saw the good in everyone, while he made his living scamming people. And despite hating his 'profession' she still stood by him, supported and loved him in every way she could. She knew his faults but never tried to change him. She knew the worst side of him and still loved him.

And what did he do? He got her killed.

Heather, whom he'd met when they were working the case at the country club, had told him that killing the woman she held responsible for the death of her daughter hadn't made any difference. It had come as a slight shock to hear that, he considered her situation so similar to his own that he'd hoped for her to feel different. To gain something out of murdering the woman that indirectly killed her daughter, anything at all.

But there was nothing. Nothing but grief, nothing but regrets. Regrets over the past, present and future. While the team, his friends, had brought him stability in times of need, now they were just another one of his mistakes. Granted, he would never have found Red John if it wasn't for them. But they'd become more than colleagues, they'd become friends. Not friends that he'd hang out with after work or discuss his personal problems with, but they were people who cared about him, and for a long time it was all that kept him sane. Only now his bonds with them had become suffocating, wrapped tightly around his throat they tied him to this Earth. Out of breath he felt like he couldn't escape them. He loved them, he did, even though he'd always kept his distance. But it wasn't fair, it wasn't fair that he should stay alive just for their sake.

The metal in his hands was starting to warm up, the clammy steel no longer cooling his flesh. He breathed heavily as his fingers caressed the shiny surface. He'd give everything to leave this world behind, but he couldn't. If there was anything he'd learned from Sophie, it was that he should accept the inevitable. No matter how contrary it was to his believes that he could do everything he wanted, his head knew what his heart wouldn't agree with. He had to face up to the fact that he wasn't going anywhere as long as there were still people who cared about him.

Patrick Jane was selfish, but not enough to make others share in his misery.

He knew he should put the gun away before temptation got the better of him. He was an expert at controlling his urges, a master at exerting control, but he was only human. Looking at it for a final time he bent down to put it back in its place, where he knew he could always find it if need be. It was comforting, reassuring in a way, even if he knew he would never get the chance to put it to good use.

The ringing of his phone disrupted the silent night, causing him to snap back up and focus on his nightstand, where it lay vibrating.

Lisbon.

He frowned as he noticed the time. Usually she'd be sound asleep by now, even if she was a hardworking cop. What could possibly be so important?

_Had it been a few days prior, it could only have been about Red John._

"Lisbon, what's going on?"

A hesitant silence on the other end.

"Lisbon?"

"-it's Red John."

"Impossible. He's dead."

"There's indications he's still alive."

His head was spinning. Surely he must be dreaming.

"How? Red John is dead. I killed him. If there's anyone who can vouch for that, it's me."

"You killed a man, Jane, but perhaps it's not Red John."

"No. It's him."

"Jane…"

"Obviously the pain medication got to you, Lisbon. Get some sleep. Take care."

With that he hung up. He closed his eyes, breathing heavily. No. No way Red John was still alive.

She said there were indications Red John was still alive. He hadn't asked what they were. Should he call back? No. She needed her rest. Not to mention that it was all lies. Naturally she had misunderstood something, possibly because of her drug induced state…

No use wasting time thinking about this. The cops guarding his door would escort him downtown tomorrow; he suspected they'd be officially charging him after his interrogation. The only reason he wasn't in jail yet was because _someone _– he guessed Grace – lost the paperwork hours before his presumed apprehension.

He glanced at the alarm clock. He'd be lucky if he got to fall asleep again before he'd be taken in. Asleep. Sleep. Did he want to go to sleep? He rather didn't. But what else could he do? Lie awake, mulling over the things Lisbon just told him? He thought endless sleepless nights had earned him more time to think in his life than the average man did in a lifetime.

He rested his head on his pillow, eyes making out the silhouette of the agent standing in front of his window. He already felt the welcoming arms of sleep embracing him, pulling him back into the darkness.

_Lies. All lies._

Tomorrow he'd probably have forgotten all about it.

Seconds later his eyes drifted shut, red smiley faces dispelling any leftover thoughts. Subconsciously he brought his hand up to his face, hand still containing the firearm.

The safety still off.

He didn't know, didn't care. Perhaps he was lucky and would wake up before anything happened.

Perhaps he was even luckier and wouldn't.

No one was there to see his finger clench around the trigger, after all.


End file.
